Code Three
by skiesfallithurts
Summary: Surveilling a suspect might be boring as hell. But not today.


"Nope, won't do it. Put that down in the report."

"Shy, aren't you? All the birds and the bees...OUCH! The fuck was that, Dry?"

"Wake me up later, OK?"

"When? For '69'?"

"Fuck you."

* * *

"What do you mean 'broken', Ressler?!"

"Do I look like a tech support? Anyway, rules are rules, you can't get away now."

"Damn it. Alright, give'em to me…Wow, quite fun in there."

"_Pornhub_ doesn't scratch your itch?"

"Go fuck yourself, Ressler."

"Only if you watch me."

* * *

"Jesus, they're pulling all-nighter or what?"

"Tell me about it."

* * *

Jean cautiously draws the curtain open, watching the target of her investigation. Well, technically, two subjects. Better safe than sorry—it's twice as better if you're an FBI—but those two are so busy with themselves they wouldn't have noticed a bazooka in her hands. For good three hours, tops, there won't be any coherent sentences—Jean would bet a hundred bucks on that. She has already learned a ton of useless things about this place: the mini-bar labels designs; the difference between a purple and aubergine shade of the furniture upholstery, and the number of the triangles on the ridiculous daubing by some moron of a painter.

_Boring. Boring. Bo-o-ring_. Few more hours like these, and climbing a curtain rod becomes a reality. She's given the most lamest assignment possible—an even more yawnsome partner.

Jean casts a glance at him. Donald_-only-boiled-eggs-are-harder-_Ressler. His body is lost in the massive armchair hugs, and his black jacket is thrown on the king-size bed alongside the coat and two umbrellas. Even Washington's weather doesn't give a lick about them and their assignment. Instead of the forecast rain—the scorching sun. The temperature outside successfully competes with a desert in Africa.

On the window sill a long-range microphone is set, its cord going straight into Ressler's headphones. The FBI has figured Jean and Ressler are quite capable to handle it without a bunch of pricey spy toys.

Ressler is leaned in the armchair, his eyes closed, the rolled-sleeved shirt revealing firm freckled arms.

Her stare doesn't go unnoticed by Ressler.

He takes the headphones off. His macho look—in Jean's opinion, _a cocky jerk-ass look_—is ruined with a thunderous rumble.

The mic has fallen off the window sill. Not from the window, thank God for that.

Ressler and Jean freeze, their ears open. The headset has gone disturbingly quiet. Jean gestures Ressler, but he shakes his head, crawling on all-fours to fix the mic.

_A stubborn idiot._

Of course, his shoe twists in a cord.

Five feet from Ressler an ugly vintage vase is dangerously shaking on the shiny coffee table. Jean leaps over Ressler, lucky to catch it just a moment before it drops to the floor.

Ressler gives her thumbs up; Jean—a middle finger to him.

Familiar moans are hissing in the headset membrane again.

Jean comes back to the table and Ressler goes to the armchair. She stares at him, transfixed for a couple of seconds. His strawberry blond hair, once perfectly gelled, is now mussed. Stretching himself, he lets a yawn, the shirt clinging tightly to his toned up body.

"God damn it!" Jean keeps her voice as low as possible, tripping over a cord. Ressler, half on his way to the armchair, turns around just in time to give her a hand. "Thanks," she grunts when Donald lets go of her.

"Anytime."

"You wish."

* * *

It's Jean's fifth circle around the table, its polished surface buried in dossiers, notes and two laptops. Ressler—_No fucking way!_— is snoring like a helicopter in the armchair. And he has the balls to drone on about the agent's stamina importance and pulling all-nighters!

Jean unintentionally lowers her eyes on his belt buckle. Her body reminds her that the last time she's had sex is half a year ago. When she's done here, she's gonna need some fresh air for a couple of weeks. And a hook-up.

Donald opens one eye, almost like a naughty tomcat. Noticing Jean's eyes on his belt, he raises his brow. Not getting a conclusive response, he approaches her. Much closer than a co-worker would if he had a question to ask. Jean bends her knee when he's getting too close.

"Dry, don't be ridiculous."

Ignoring the change in his voice, Jean grabs Ressler's tie, her knee is inches from his crotch.

"Jerkass."

His eyes are laughing at her. A dark-red fabric is almost coming apart under her fingers. His palms on the table, Ressler is hovering over Jean like a scarecrow, tall and clumsy. Her knee can't compete with the strength of his body. _Fuck! Damn concrete!_

Ressler does a bizarre thing: he rubs against her hip like a cat.

_Freak. _

Another thought, set off by a lack of estrogen in her blood, takes over.

Using her confusion to his advantage, Ressler kisses Jean. She lets go of his tie and lowers her knee. The thought of someone checking on them at any minute turns her on. It's not a cheap metaphor—once a supervisor has popped in to catch a pair of some unlucky agents smoking pot on the shift.

Jean's fingers dig into Ressler's shoulders, wrinkling his shirt. She answers the kiss, returning five times the fervor Ressler's doing it with. Something hard and square is poking at her back. She tries to find the laptop, but Donald impatiently pushes it aside, its lid slamming with the other one.

Jean says hesitantly, "If it breaks—"

"Don't care."

His lips back on hers, Ressler is pressing her against the table like she's a piece of furniture.

"Don," she barely breathes out.

"Sorry." The pressure weakens.

_You're gonna regret it later. _Her mind keeps telling her off, how wrong is this, the consequences, the after-sex awkwardness, but she doesn't give a single fuck about it. Ressler's lips are on hers and her brains go offline. Her hands reach out to his belt buckle, demandingly tugging on it.

Ressler unglues from her, puzzled, because she hasn't even unbuttoned her blouse. Jean nods at the chair, pulling her hair up in a ponytail.

"Soft-core, alright? Nothing personal." She grabs a couple of cushions from the bed to make herself more or less comfortable in front of the chair.

An absent expression has frozen on Ressler's face.

"Ressler, do you copy?"—He obediently sits down.—"For the record, it doesn't mean a damn thing, clear?"

He nods, unbuckling his belt. He produces something between a moan and a whimper when Jean wraps her fingers around his cock, teasing him with a slow, warm-up motion.

_Sucker. _

His arrogance and self-importance gone, the expression on his face alters beyond recognition. As Jean's hands work him up and down, Ressler lets a low guttural groan, the sound of it getting her off. He throws his head back, his neck bare, worthy of Michelangelo sculptures.

The AC's stalled. Jean's pants and blouse are soaking with sweat, and her body doesn't agree with the soft-core policy, aggressively demanding she does something. Anything.

Ressler's loud groaning overlaps the screeching in the headset—his stealth mode is off. Neighbors must be delighted.

Jean can't take it anymore and unzips the fly on her pants. The left hand isn't the best for this kind of thing, but whatever. Her body gratefully answers at her touch. She switches hands, jerking Ressler off with her left all the while stroking herself with her right. Ressler, judging by his blank stare, has spaced out.

His palm covers her own, but Jean doesn't care. She's almost there. _Almost. _It's not enough; she rubs her swollen clit harder, yet the climax isn't coming.

Apparently, Ressler is the one who takes it all tonight, so Jean switches her attention to him. Throwing his hand off his cock, she brushes its wet head with her thumb and then touches it with the tip of the tongue. Her nails are digging into Ressler's hips as her tongue goes down his shaft. She is aware Ressler's looking at her, but she doesn't raise her eyes on him.

"Jesus Christ…" Breathing in, Ressler manages to put words in an utterance, whilst stroking Jean's hair. The more Jean takes him into her mouth, the more his fingers are slipping off her locks. Each time he tries to grab a fistful of them, the hair tie comes in his way. Once he has a grip of the damn thing, his fingers slip, curling in Jean's hair as he thrusts deeper.

Jerking Jean's ponytail, with a delay Ressler realizes her teeth are nibbling him at the base of his dick—way too far from a gentle nipping, rather, half-biting. He lets go of her, muttering "Sorry".

If her hands and mouth hadn't been busy, Jean would have told him where he could stick his "sorry". Her knees are numb, but she doesn't care. She finds a steady rhythm at last—Ressler's ragged breathing shows it.

Ressler, despite the fact he's moments away from coming, tries to hint Jean he wouldn't want doing that in her mouth.

He scrambles all the words he's capable of.

"You… shouldn't…"

Jean doesn't really listen; she builds up the pace, all the while caressing his balls.

"Jesus…fucking…Christ." Ressler pulls Jean's ponytail again, hanging onto it with his fingers.

Jean raises her eyes on him. His head is thrown back, the shirt is half-opened, its buttons crooked, and drops of sweat are trickling down his chest.

She comes back with a pack of tissues and throws it at Donald. Nothing happens. Jean lets a meaningful cough. One. Another. On the third time Ressler gets back to reality and takes the tissue. His brows frowned, he zips his fly and buttons up the shirt.

"You fucking nuts?!" Jean hisses, careful not to raise her voice, when Ressler rises from the chair and pulls her to himself.

"Shut up."

He kisses her.

Too intimate. She flusters. _Too weird, too wrong._ Guys don't make out after a head, it's a rule already. Same as no one folds holding two aces, but Ressler's tongue ends up in her mouth and all the rules disappear.

She knew he's a psycho, but this is out of line.

"You deaf or what?!"

"Could you shut up for a second?" Ressler is boldly unbuttoning her blouse. "Don't like owing you."

"Won't work, forget it," Jean grunts. She hasn't lied—where other girls get hot with a half-turn, it takes her almost an hour. And it doesn't mean she'll come. Before she knows it, most of the guys go off like fucking Christmas lights, so she's already used to doing all the work by herself. And eating out is not something all the guys would go for.

"Don't fuss and sit." Ressler grabs a jacket from the bed and throws it on the armchair, gesturing Jean. "I'll be right back."

He stands at the curtain, the binoculars clapped to his eyes.

"All good?"

Ressler nods, turning away from the window. On his way to the armchair he takes off the tie and unbuttons the first two buttons of his shirt. He rolls up the dropping sleeves back, picks the cushions from the floor and adjusts himself on them the same way Jean has done before the chair.

Jean finds his thoroughness at this kind of task admirable. _Boy, can't you just relax? It's not a competition._

His hands aren't doing anything extraordinary. _Pff, been there, done that._ Unbuttoning her blouse, he's simply teasing her with tiny light strokes. He meaningfully sighs each time when his hands run over her breasts cupped in a bra. It gets on her nerves and Jean unhooks the bra from the front.

It's easier to give up than argue with him.

His face brightened up like he's hit the jackpot, Ressler gently rubs her nipples with his thumbs. Jean shivers at the feeling—the only time she's actually felt something is on her own. When getting laid, her body goes into some dumb mode. But now its response to Ressler's actions is just _odd_.

Ressler unzips her pants and frees her from the rest. His palm goes up and down on her. As he's stroking her with the edge of his hand, Jean instinctively pulls her knees closer, letting out a soft moan.

"Won't work, huh?" Ressler is grinning like a content cat, bringing his lips to her nipple.

"Shu…" The word slips from her mind. Her knees are trembling.

Jean is clutching onto the armrests, letting a short growl when Ressler's tongue teases her breasts. His teeth grazing her nipples, she grips his shoulders tightly. Jean's fingers run through Ressler's hair, the short strawberry blond bangs twisting between them. The rougher Ressler's lips and tongue get, the more Jean presses his head to herself, breathing in the cologne. An unusual mix of lavender and coriander.

Satisfied with the result, Ressler, without any warning, lifts her legs up onto his shoulders.

"Ressler, damn it!"

Jean is digging her nails into the upholstery, arching herself to catch the right angle. Ressler is in no hurry, applying to her every trick he knows: the tip of his tongue; wide and thorough brushes; fluttering zigzag-like strokes which leave her body quiver and writhe like sails in the storm. She's actually grateful to him for not asking—she wouldn't even move her tongue right now.

He slips two fingers into her, the tip of his tongue circling her clit. Each of his movement is precise, like he's meticulously assembling a stripped gun.

"Ressler…Don…Ahh!"

He's working her with the tongue only and the first orgasm wave, slow liquid honey, floods Jean over. Ressler ups the pace, not giving her a break, like she's another target on the shooting range. He lifts Jean up, his tongue twirling on her clit. She shrieks, and another wave, this time shorter, submerges her.

Ressler gently lays Jean down into the armchair. His wet lips are glistening.

To get up and put some clothes on seems an impossible task for Jean—she's numb and melted from the aftermath. Ressler's jacket has come in handy: her sweltered body slips on the armchair upholstery.

"Quite…impressive." Jean's voice is hoarse, lungs gasping for air.

Ressler is grinning widely, cleaning his hands with a tissue. He takes a new one—for his lips, wiping them slow, clearly showing off.

Then—_Eh?!_—he casually puts the tie around his neck, tying it in a neat knot; adjusts the collar and clasps the buttons on the cuffs.

"Cleaner's on you."

Making himself comfortable in the armchair, Ressler puts the headset on.


End file.
